


Dinner with the Comtesse

by Caritas_Lavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caritas_Lavellan/pseuds/Caritas_Lavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1811, a month after Emperor Napoleon visited Utrecht. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good pseudonym must be in want of a wife. Dragon Age meets Jane Austen (or more accurately Georgette Heyer after a bottle of Madeira), and the elves are going Dutch.</p><p>Inspired by a scene in Chapter 18 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4875835/chapters/11178601">Not that kind of wolf</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner with the Comtesse

The last time Graaf Solas van Harel had seen Miss Eliana van Vellan was as a chubby three-year-old. She’d been playing under the table with a wolf he’d painted while he planned the next revolutionary campaign with her father Cornelis. Soon after, Cornelis died. His will left _my dearest friend van Harel_ as his daughter’s guardian: a perfect plan except that the Graaf was nowhere to be found.

The last time M. De Wolf had seen her was the previous July, escaping from her governess to meet him by the Oudegracht, the old canal. A faint scent of roses still lingered on the discarded cravat he held in his hands; he’d drenched it in her perfume. He inhaled deeply, remembering the softness of her lips; the way her blue eyes matched her morning dress; the way she’d clung to him at parting.

And tonight, if all went well, they would both see her again, and make her his.

****

“ _Ma chère Josephine_ ,” murmured the Comtesse, kissing her on both cheeks. “Such a pleasure to see you once again. And this must be your niece Eliana.”

“Yes, my poor sister Yvette’s daughter. She was living with our mother in Utrecht until last year when Grandmère passed away, and since then she has been with us at Rampton Park.”

Eliana took the Comtesse’s proffered hand, and curtseyed gracefully. She looked around the room, suddenly feeling shy. Before she’d travelled with her aunt to England she hadn’t realised Lady Blackwall moved in such exalted circles; the wars had made it difficult to stay in contact.

It was only the intervention of Commander Rutherford that had brought them back in touch. As her grandmother had sickened, Eliana had sought to get a message to her aunt in England, and had used the only method she could think of: a letter via the smuggler Varric. His boat had been bombarded in the English Channel, and rescued by Rutherford. Varric’s tale of the beautiful young woman in distress had touched the heart of the handsome naval officer, who offered to find Lady Blackwall and, if she wished, bring her to Utrecht to see her mother one last time.

And now they were in London, and Napoleon had visited Utrecht, the Kingdom of Holland annexed by the French. The Comtesse had lived here since before her country’s Revolution, but at least she had some concept of what it was like to leave your land. Eliana wondered if she’d left a man as well.

****

Van Harel plucked his invitation from the mantelpiece and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket: _Comtesse Hélène Montclaire requests the pleasure of the company of the Vicomte D’Arlatagne at a small private dinner masqué, and thereafter to accompany her party to the Vauxhall masquerade_.

He owed this opportunity to the Comtesse’s friend and rival, Madame Vivienne de Fer. He had bet her fifty guineas she could not make masked dinners fashionable again, and now they were. And as he placed the silver mask across his face, he smiled into the mirror. How long would it take the incomparable Mademoiselle van Vellan to recognise him as Monsieur De Wolf?

****

Eliana had been dressed with exquisite care by her aunt’s maid Rossignol. The fashions were similar to those in Utrecht, but more extreme: the chemise was thinner; the stays pushed her breasts up higher; the stockings and the petticoats were silk; and the muslin gown pure white, with blue ribbons that matched her eyes. Her Venetian grandmother would not have approved, but when had anything Eliana wanted been approved by Grandmère? The only person they both got on with was her governess Miss Pendergast, who had taught her languages and mathematics. Eliana was a precocious child and loved to learn, and Grandmère had the firmly held view that no-one was so suitable to teach as a properly-trained English governess.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror, touching the auburn locks that Rossignol had curled to perfection. In her hands she held a crumpled letter, ending: _I will see you tonight – M. de W._

The strings of her white half-mask lay lightly in her hand. Time to bring the first Act to a close.

****

The Comtesse sat at the head of the table, engaging the Vicomte in a lengthy discussion about the art of the Renaissance. Lord Rutherford sat at her right hand: he’d recently inherited the Earldom on the death of his father, and had had to leave the navy. Eliana sat between him and a man she’d just been introduced to: Herr van Leeuven, a student at the University of Cambridge, a protégé of the Comtesse. He was studying something called the Mathematical Tripos, and was the first Dutch student in his college. Lady Blackwall was on the other side of the young man, carrying on a polite conversation with him of the sights of London. Across the table sat Madame de Fer, resplendent in gold and crimson satin, and Lord Pavus, talking loudly of decadence and fripperies.

Eliana used her silver knife to cut into the _poivré filet de chevreuil_ and drained another glass of sherry. She ought to talk to the Commander, or the Earl as she must now think of him: he looked as if he’d rather be aboard a ship than in such mixed company. Though there was no love for Bonaparte among the emigrant community either. She was about to ask the Earl about the prospect of a campaign for Napoleon in Russia when the Comtesse brought her discourse with the Vicomte to an end and turned to him. Apparently this was a signal that everyone should converse with the person on their other hand, for Madame de Fer turned to talk to the Vicomte, and Lady Blackwall to the man upon her other side. Eliana had forgotten who he was already: a Mr Colt, or Cole?

The servant filled her glass again, and as she raised it to her lips she felt the Vicomte’s gaze upon her. He wore a fitted dark coat of superfine above a startlingly white cravat, a single sapphire pin that matched his eyes behind the mask. Eliana remembered tight-fitting cream breeches sunk into black tassled Hessian boots, and sighed with remembered pleasure. He looked completely gorgeous in the candlelight, and strangely unfamiliar. But his hands… ah! Them she knew.

His eyes were dark with lust, quite unmistakable. She felt as if she could taste his interest even from across the table. Her hands were shaking. She realised she’d tipped a little wine down her bodice.

“Please allow me,” said van Leeuven, passing her a napkin. She turned and thanked him sweetly.

****

She was so much more beautiful than remembrance had painted, and yet his memory was excellent. Van Harel watched intently as she blushed beneath the mask and patted the napkin to her cleavage. Dresses were so thin these days; he remembered the stiff brocades of his youth, the wigs and panniers and flounces. He surreptitiously licked the venison juices from his lips.

 _Eliana._ He returned mechanical answers to Madame de Fer’s entirely predictable observations, and quietly watched her as she asked van Leeuven about his studies and listened to him talk of Kant and conic sections. He remembered discussions with Legendre about his correspondence with a woman student, Sophie Germain, and his encouragement as M. De Wolf that Eliana should read the works of Leonhard Euler. It was still his hope that the revolutions in France and Holland might allow greater intellectual freedom for women and the common folk than society traditionally prescribed them.

His mind must have wandered sufficiently to alert Madame de Fer to his inattention.

“I do declare, _mon cher Vicomte_ , that you have not listened to a word I said for five whole minutes. I asked you whether you conceded that this mask is better set with opals than with diamonds.”

“I fear you have the right of it, Madame. There are no jewels that could improve your mask.”

She looked offended. “D’Arlatagne, I have no idea what you might be implying.”

“You may look into the mirror of my mask and observe it for yourself. No words of mine suffice.”

****

Dessert was lemon cream served with Madeira. The young student was sweet, and already growing sweet on her as well. She felt Rutherford’s attention fading from the Comtesse and drawing back to her. She knew that M. De Wolf, or here the Vicomte, could not drag his eyes away, however much he tried to listen to Madame de Fer. Eventually etiquette deserted them and a general conversation intervened.

“And are you staying long with Madame la Comtesse, Miss van Vellen?” asked Rutherford, at a pause in van Leeuven’s tales of student exploits on the River Cam.

“She has kindly let us stay here for a week, until my aunt’s redecorations are completed,” said Eliana, smiling at him. “We are most grateful, as it lets me shop for dresses before the Season.”

Madame de Fer touched a hand to her hair and fluttered her eyelashes at the Earl. “One should never underestimate the virtue of dressing to perfection, my dear Lord Rutherford.”

“Indeed,” remarked the Vicomte, looking straight at Eliana, who blushed again beneath her mask.

“So unfortunate,” continued Madame de Fer, “that Miss van Vellan’s guardian is nowhere to be found. How long is it you have to wait to marry, _cherie_?”

“Until she’s twenty-five,” lamented Lady Blackwall. “It is an intolerable piece of conceit from Graaf van Harel, to disappear from society like this. And all because he fears retribution for his actions in betraying his kinsmen to the revolution. No duke should ever have got involved in such idiocy. Had Yvette still lived I’m sure she would have prevented Cornelis from his part in it.”

Eliana stayed quiet, but caught the Vicomte’s eye. Was that a flush beneath his mask as well?

****

The ladies retired, and Lord Pavus looked around him as he sipped the port.

“What a beautiful figure Miss van Vellan has, my dears,” he simpered. “I can see that you were highly taken with it, Rutherford. And you as well, van Leeuven.”

The young student bristled angrily. “She is more than just a pair of fine eyes, _monsieur_. How many girls have heard of the Critique of Pure Reason, let alone have read it?”

“Let us hope that she is pure in other ways as well,” retorted Lord Pavus. “It would be such a shame if such fine eyes were doomed to dwindle on a shelf.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors again, Dorian,” said the Vicomte, lazily swirling the port in his glass. “I do wish you would take care for your language, imperfect though it is.”

He looked at Rutherford, staring into space, and felt a moment’s jealousy. The student was just a boy, a puppy. But the way that Eliana had smiled at the Commander had set all his teeth on edge.

****

As agreed by letter, Eliana had feigned herself a headache and had retired to her bedroom. She heard the carriages drawing up, and listened for the footsteps of the messenger, Arainai. From behind the curtain, sash drawn up, she heard that so-familiar drawling voice.

“Sevran. What irks you so, that you must chase me when I am bent on pleasure?”

“ _Monsieur le Vicomte, Madame la Comtesse, excusez-moi_.” She imagined the blond man bowing, hiding twinkling eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke to his master.

The Vicomte made his apologies to the Comtesse. “Madame, _vous excusez, sil vous plait._ I have an urgent matter of business that I must attend to. I beg you to accept my apologies, and hope that Lord Pavus will provide sufficient entertainment for tonight.”

His footsteps sounded as he walked away. The carriages drew off, with all the party, leaving her alone in the Comtesse’s town house. Alone, that is, apart from all the servants. What was it he had said once? _If you want to know what is going on, pay attention to what the servants do._

And then she heard the footsteps coming back; he’d made one circuit round the square. She imagined him going to the servants’ entrance, where Rossignol would let him in. Leliana Rossignol had been maid to both the girls before Yvette and Josephine had married, when she’d been required to travel with Aunt Josephine to England. She’d been a comfort for Eliana through the prescribed, and excessively dull, period of mourning. Another prized connection with the beloved land she’d left.

A knock at the door, quiet and yet firm. Time to start the second Act.

****

She opened the door, and stood aside, eyes cast down, to let him in. He held her letter in his hands, and yet was suddenly stricken. The way she’d looked at Rutherford… did she still love him, Monsieur de Wolf, or had he lost her? Was it right to love her when she still knew not who he was?

“Come in, _monsieur_ ,” she whispered, the picture of sweet innocence. Her mask removed, the blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck. She looked… delectable.

And he was hungry for her, ravenously hungry. Fifteen months of longing, waiting, wondering. Fifteen years of watching from the shadows, seeing the eager child blossom into an intelligent young woman, fit to be a Countess… or a Duchess… or to serve the Revolution with her wits and will.

For once Van Harel found himself speechless. He stepped into her bedroom, half-thinking to retreat and go, to take the letters back and set her free. Suddenly he reached into his pocket, and bowing, presented her with a folded parchment.

“What is it?” she asked, not opening it at once.

“Open it and see.” He bowed again, stiffly, almost regretting the impulse that had driven him to write it.

Eliana smiled at him, then gasped as she opened it. “It’s a special marriage licence. For Miss Eliana van Vellan and Vicomte D’Arlatagne. Signed by Graaf van Harel.”

“I promise you it is not forged,” said Solas, kneeling on the floor. “Eliana, I asked you this before, but if anything has changed then I will not hold you to your former promise. Will you marry me, _cherie_?”

She nodded, eyes brimming with sudden tears. “Yes, yes, _mon bien-aimé_ , however can you doubt it? Are you really then a Vicomte? However did you find him?”

“I looked,” replied van Harel, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

And after that, there was no reason to prevent him from crushing her in his arms, and pressing her against his heart. No reason not to pull her close to sit upon his lap upon the bed, and remove her satin slippers. No reason not to slide a hand up her stockings and manoeuvre for her garter. No reason not to kiss her lovely breasts where the sherry had dripped upon them, or to pull her bodice just a couple of inches lower to lift them from the stays, and gently bite her pretty nipples. No reason not to discover that, as he had half expected, she wore no drawers beneath her petticoats. He found soft hair beneath his fingers, warm and soaking wet.

She said yes to everything, and she said yes to him.

****

“I cannot believe you are a Vicomte,” said Eliana, laughing. His fingers stroked in lazy circles around her heat, teasing at her entrance. She sat upon his lap, her skirts pulled up around his arm; her stays half-open at the front beneath her gown. She felt the hardness of his member through chemise and petticoat and muslin, and wondered what it would feel like to turn and fall upon it with her mouth.

He increased the pressure of his fingers, slowly rubbing until her breaths came faster. She laid her head back against his shoulder, gasping. His beautiful long fingers traced one last time around. Then he sank one finger gently into where she wanted, wrapping his other arm tighter around her waist. He smelled divine: of candlelight and port and leather books.

“I cannot… believe… you are a Vicomte,” repeated Eliana, arching her back in pleasure. He slid his finger deeper. Another finger joined it, briefly, then withdrew.

He removed his fingers and placed them before her lips, indicating that she should suck them.

“Why not, Eliana?”

She giggled as he removed his fingers and teased her by dragging them along the insides of her thighs. “Surely no noble would spend so much time pleasuring a woman before taking his own pleasure. It is only the revolutionaries who know how to treat women as equals.”

“You deserve to be treated as an equal,” he said, seriously. “Liberty is not conditional on one’s sex.”

“But where did you get your experience? From everything that I have heard, the Vicomte has never favoured women. And Monsieur De Wolf was far too busy playing politics to care.”

“I am extremely well read. But how had you heard of Vicomte D’Arlatagne, my sweet?”

“Oh, you know! Servants’ gossip. Rossignol knows your Arainai. In more than one sense, _vous comprenez_. You mean the poems of John Donne, Andrew Marvell. I heard the books had the most fascinating…”

He had raised an eyebrow. “If you know that Arainai is the true name of my servant, then you know… and if you know about the pictures…”

“Yes, I know you are van Harel. Oh! The pictures! I believe that Arainai drew them and Leliana was the model. Did you like them? Arainai thought that after so many years of abstinence you might value some guidance. I think they were a hint to you to treat me as you ought. You should have let me stay with you in Holland. There was no need for me to come to England; I am quite capable of masquerade and rebellion by myself.”

Her eyes sparkled as she turned to face him, undid the buttons of his breeches. With a soft shudder she slid herself around him and began to ride him. Taking all the pleasure she had wanted through that long dark year of English mourning. His gasping as he came within her was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard, and triggered a euphoria of her own.

He would never fail to treat her as he ought again.

  
  


****

**Author's Note:**

> It was only while researching the costumes for this that I learned that women only started wearing knickers (drawers) under their dresses in the 1820s. I am probably never going to watch another Jane Austen adaptation without having that thought somewhere at the back of my mind.
> 
> Some aspects of Solas' character actually remind me, of all people, of Anne Elliot in Persuasion - exiled from her home and almost happier to have it back than she is to marry Captain Wentworth. Nostalgia is a powerful force.


End file.
